


Fabrics and Feelings

by Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Bisexual Han Solo, F/M, M/M, Minor Leia Organa/Han Solo, POV Han Solo, drabble in which han is my darling disaster bi, one-sided han/lando, really random thoughts about costumes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 19:04:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15780210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome/pseuds/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome
Summary: Han Solo muses on his choice of outfit, and tries not to think about the clothing of those he loves.





	Fabrics and Feelings

 

The galaxy is full of a lot of interesting things. Han knows that well. He’s met plenty of non-humanoids living existences that bend his mind, people who have been alive hundreds of years or just five minutes, been on planets so hostile to life that he recognizes that he can’t even leave his ship, and even been mistake for a god once or twice. Which was better than the time he was mistaken for Chewie’s love-slave.

The galaxy’s also full of incredible foods, and drinks (although he knows better to try most of the latter--he’s far more of a lightweight than his reputation would suggestion) But he’s always been game to try any food that gets the green light for humans. Heck, he’s even tried some spicy pepper stew that was supposed to only be for Bothans, and fierfek knows he’s had more Kashyyyk specialites than probably any other Corellian.

So, he’s no stranger to adaptation, and not afraid of the unknown. That being said, there is one main area he refuses to change, to alter, to modify. His clothes. Sure, he’s evolved a little bit over the years, traded a jacket for a vest, unless cold weather deems otherwise, and he’s not too picky about jacket or trouser colors… provided the colors are: dark blue, black, or brown.

Chewie once told him he couldn’t wear his black vest with his brown trousers, so he insisted on doing exactly that until a pretty woman from Coursacant had a good laugh at him.

Looking back, that was stupid. He’d never be able to afford anything that would fit in on the metropolitan planet, where even a cuppa caf would set you back at least enough credits for a full meal anywhere else. On Coruscant, everything is so lush, so glittering, so remote to all he knows. People throw around sums of money that would buy him ten Falcons, a hundred new outfits. A whole planet to live on, maybe. More money than he's ever dreamed of.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t bother changing too much. He knows he’ll never fit in, not among any world that has rich people in it. So he stands out, on purpose, because it’s better than accidentally standing out.

And maybe, maybe his lack of finery is why it steals his breath, on certain other people. Not on everyone, no. He's no young boy with a crush on every pretty face these days. But even now, a swirl of a certain blue and gold-Chandrilan silk-lined cape sends a shiver of longing through Han. Wondering what the fabric would feel like against his rough, callused hands, and then wondering what those hands might touch under the cape. Under the fine collared shirt too, skimming along the planes of Lando’s body like a speeder following the contours of land.

But he knows better than to touch either the silk or his friend. Some things, like silk and love and a home, are just out of his reach.

That remains his motto, year after year. His outfit never changes, the bloodstripe remains on the trousers long after all loyalty to his home planet vanishes. The vest’s pockets hold a variety of things: spice, tools, credits (although that is too rare for his liking) and become just as worn as the rest of him. Holes are patched as soon as they appear, for fear of losing one of those precious credits from a pocket.

He knows how to darn, and is a pretty damn good seamstress, though he’ll never admit it. Chewie tells him it’s a good habit, and makes him more useful. He points out that as the Wookie doesn’t exactly sport a lot of clothes, it’s not the most useful thing he might be doing with his spare time.

Chewie then just pats him on the head like he’s a child. Wookies have it easy, fashion-wise.

His clothes remain worn and tired and decidedly unfashionable on any plant.

Battered ship, battered pilot. Both, though, stubbornly are more than they appear. It’s easy to mistake the Falcon for a hunk of junk, easy to mistake him for a scoundrel. But the ship isn’t, and maybe, just maybe, he isn’t.

That’s what he tells himself, sometimes, as he darns a hole from a trooper's blaster shot, or digs in the back of his closet for a different jacket to wear, because she’s seen him in his vest too many times and damn it, why doesn’t he have more clothes?

Especially when she’s a princess, for star’s sake. When she’s got an entire wardrobe she hauls around, even after the destruction of her planet. Her uniform on Hoth is couture no doubt about it, every bit of that glimmering white fabric perfectly hugging her curves. His sharp eye notices a lot more than just lurking imperials. He can recognize a hand-stitched garment from a mile away.

Leia asked if he always wears the same shirt. He tells her he’s got a couple of the same ones. What she doesn’t need to know is that he’s learned to sew the basic shirt style, and makes more whenever one finally becomes more patches than fabric.

And now, now they’re on Bespin and Lando’s there, and he’s just as well-dressed as every, if not more so. That’s real Mygeeto leather trimming Ladno’s shirt, and his trousers gleam like the dark of space. What’s Han got to compare to that? An old utility jacket with enough pockets to fit a family of porgs? Its not really blue nor black, existent in that faded color between the two, which is made worse by his last clean pair of trousers being brown.

Lando takes Leia shopping and she returns swathed in beauty. Lush, soft velvets drape her narrow form. It’s a perfect Leia outfit, because it’s not really a dress, not in any way that would hamper her running.

Granted, she’d run just fine in that white gown that left very little to his imagination, back on the Death Star. Imaginings he’s tried hard to forget, even after that kiss.

He tries hard to instead look at the swirling designs on her over-dress, notice how the thin fabric reflects the artificial light of the room. Everything here’s artificial. Everything but the silks and leather on Lando, and the soft cottons on Leia. After seeing her for so long in her military gear, it’s strange to see her once more dressed like a princess. Lando’s clearly splurged for her, and someone on this floating city must be an expert in hairstyles, because Leia hasn’t wore anything like that in a long time.

But the dress, the hair-style, even her makeup, that doesn’t hide any of who Leia is to him. When she looks up at him, all he can see is how beautiful she is, and how unattainable. She’s all the glittering lights of Coruscant, all the credits he’ll never be able to earn, all the battles he’ll never win.

She smiles. “You’re looking a bit less scruffy today, nerf-herder.”

He grins back at her. “Who you calling scruffy?”


End file.
